


Tipping Your Hand

by D_Veleniet



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, handjobs, series 8 canon-compliant, wonky TARDIS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:32:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6863461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_Veleniet/pseuds/D_Veleniet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the TARDIS goes wonky and snags the Doctor, he needs Clara to free him. As the situation becomes increasingly more awkward, Clara discovers there actually ARE things she can't handle...even if she has to. But can she keep her poker face?  Based on the "Unlikely Lines from Doctor Who" challenge and set somewhere in between "Mummy on the Orient Express" and "In the Forest of the Night."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tipping Your Hand

_You’ve got to believe me, Clara, this is our best chance.  Now unzip my flies, and I’ll explain later._

- _Mock the Week – “Unlikely Lines to Hear in an Episode of Doctor Who”_

* * *

Clara was rudely awakened when a violent lurch nearly tossed her from beneath her sheets.  


It took her a moment to gain her bearings as she blinked a few times at the interior of her TARDIS bedroom, wondering if she’d simply awakened from a particularly realistic dream.

Then the room shook again, confirming that no, the shaking was _not_ just in her head. 

She stumbled out of bed, muttering, rubbing blearily at her eyes as she padded down the TARDIS hallway.

_Gong!_

The ominous sound froze her in her tracks, chasing away the last remnants of drowsiness.  At the next clang of the cloister bell, she broke into a run, heading for the console room. 

“Doctor?”

“Clara!”

“Where are you?”

“I’m down here!  Come quickly!”

She rounded the stairs, taking them down two at a time.  “What’s going on?”

The Doctor was standing underneath the console, and at first glance, nothing seemed terribly amiss.  His arms were held in a slightly awkward position off to his right, fingers pointed in towards each other and pressed together, like he was holding something very small.   They were resting on a nest of wires which hung from the ceiling, but his arms were over-extended, straining in the direction of something beyond the wires.  It seemed he only needed to take two more steps so he could set down whatever was in his hands, but for whatever reason, he wasn’t. 

Another shake sent Clara scrambling for something to hold onto, but miraculously, the Doctor didn’t budge.  It was then she saw the cause of his awkward position:  his left trouser leg was caught in something.  The fabric was pinched from waistband to cuff, like a creature with gigantic pincers had snagged him and wouldn’t set him free.  With his back to the wall and left leg completely immobile, he was quite literally completely stuck. 

She would’ve giggled or at least smirked but for the jarring and the TARDIS bell.  Never good signs. 

“Good, you’re here.  I need your help.”

She crossed her arms, absentmindedly rubbing them in the cool air.  She should’ve thrown on a sweatshirt or something.  Her thin tank top with its scoop neck left her feeling a little…exposed.  “Well, yeah, I can see that.  What happened?” 

“There was an explosion when I tried to take off.  Something about the atmosphere here has infected her.”

“Infected?  How can the TARDIS get _infected_?”

“The mixture of gasses.  They’ve made her a bit giddy.”

_Gong_!

Clara eyed the ceiling warily.  “She doesn’t sound giddy to me.”

He shook his silver head a few times.  “When a ship gets giddy, she loses all sense of where she is – and _who_ she is.  And when she loses that, something as simple as punching in coordinates to depart results in retaliation.  Right now, she thinks she’s under attack, and she’s prepared to do whatever it takes to defend herself.”

“Whatever it takes meaning…?”

“BOOM.”  He curved his lips over the word, arching his eyebrows meaningfully. 

Clara nodded seriously.  “Okay, so – are you fixing it?”

The Doctor jerked his head in the direction of his hands.  “I _was_ fixing it.  All the wires to reboot her are here, in my hands, but they need to be over _there_.”  He indicated further off to his right where a small, rectangular panel hung from the ceiling.  “But she figured out what I was doing, and tried to stop me.  First – the bell; then the rocking.  And finally –” He flicked his eyes towards his trapped leg.

Clara peered at where his trouser leg was stuck.  “Is that…is that the _wall_?!  Did she just _grab_ you?!  I didn’t know she could do that…”

“Neither did I.  Two thousand years, and she’s still full of surprises.” he remarked drily.

_Gong!_

Clara cracked a smile.  “Basically the wife’s got amnesia and is after you with an ax right now, isn’t she?”

His eyes blazed.  “Yes, except it’s not just me she’s after.  And it’s not an ax, it’s a nuclear bomb and she’s on a suicide mission.”

“Nuclear bomb?!”

The Doctor’s expression was grave.  “Nuclear bomb is an optimistic projection.  If she blows herself up, it won’t just kill you and me…it will wipe out the entire planet.  And as much as I’d like to repay the Yagalyrakush for failing to warn me about the impact their atmosphere has on a ship’s telepathic circuitry, I think destroying their entire species might be viewed as overreacting.”

“Fair enough.  So what do we do?”

The Doctor sighed.  “The only way is for me to get these wires over there so I can engage a failsafe override.”

“But you’re stuck.”  Clara nodded, moving towards him.  “So give me the wires then.”

“No!”  His fingers tightened around them at the suggestion.  “I have six in each hand, placed _just so_ , and their position is the _only_ thing keeping us alive right now.”

“Okay, so…”  She eyed his trouser leg, crouching down at where the fabric had melded to the wall.  It was then that she noticed that the top button of his trousers was undone.  “Um, did she do that, too?”

He looked down at where her gaze was leveled.  “No.  I was trying to be sneaky, but she caught on before I could go any further.”

Clara was incredulous.  “So, you…thought she’d be less likely to notice you if you what?  Weren’t wearing any trousers?”

The Doctor rolled his eyes.

_Gong_!

“You’ve got to believe me, Clara, this is our best chance.  Now unzip my flies, and I’ll explain later.”   

She had all of a sudden become _very_ aware of where she was crouched and immediately rose.  “Um.  Sorry, _what_?”

“You need to take my trousers off.  As long as I’m stuck, I can’t start the override.”

She exhaled a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.  “Right.”  She stood there.  “Okay.”

The Doctor frowned.  “What are you waiting for?  Ten minutes to BOOM!”

“I know!  Just – gimme a minute!”  She took a tiny step forward. 

“We don’t _have_ a minute.”

“Shut up.  You just said we had ten.  Let me do this my own way, okay?”  She reached her hand out and gingerly grasped his zipper, pulling it down.  Luckily, his trousers were cut high, so there was no… _interference._   “Okay.”  She swallowed, relieved that his shirt was long enough that it covered everything.  Given his level of patience at the moment, she doubted a question about whether he was wearing pants would go over well.

Also she wasn’t entirely sure the words would fall out of her mouth in the right order. 

“Okay,” she said again, grabbing his waistband.  She said a silent prayer to a deity that she wasn’t even sure existed that if he _was_ wearing pants, they would have the common decency to stay in place.  She tugged.

Nothing happened.

She switched her grip, fingers curling inside his waistband, her knuckles pushing into his hip. 

The fabric stubbornly refused to give. 

She stepped back and surveyed the situation, teeth worrying her bottom lip.  Even with his trousers undone, the waistband was pinched so tightly on the left that there was no give on the right.  “It’s not working.”  She examined his left leg more closely, letting out a low exhalation as she did.  “TARDIS tantrum” seemed about as threatening as a toddler’s compared to this:  his trouser leg wasn’t just caught like something had pinched it.  The outside of his right leg was almost _gone._ From waistband to cuff, she’d sucked him in, melting the fabric into the wall like a bug to a hot glue trap.  “How were you even breathing?”

“It did feel a bit snug,” he conceded, taking in a deep inhalation as if he’d just realised he could. 

“Time for a new plan, then.”  She thought, fingers tapping her arms.  “I think I’m going to have to cut you out of them.”

“Cut me out of them?”  The Doctor eyed his left leg uneasily.  “How?  Where will you cut?”

“I’ll start on the right, don’t worry.  Get you free on the right, then move to the left.  I’ll cut along the seams so we can rip once we’ve cut enough.  Trust me - it’ll go quicker.” 

He eyed her suspiciously.  “Why does it sound like you’ve done this before?”

She grimaced.  “One of those unfortunate things you learn as a nanny:  don’t just cut anywhere.  Trousers are held together at the seams so even if you get one leg free, you still have to deal with the other.”  She headed for the compartment where she knew he stowed the majority of his tools.  “You’ve got scissors somewhere, right?” 

“Yes, other compartment, red bag.”

“Okay.”  She was amazed how calm she sounded as she rifled through the bag and grabbed the shears. 

_The Doctor without his trousers.  But it’s not like I haven’t seen him naked.  Even though it was only two seconds…and that was before he changed into a big, grey stick insect._

_So this might even be funny:   seeing those stick legs all bare._

_Unless he isn’t wearing any pants…_

_Then it definitely won’t be funny._

She successfully maintained her calm as she knelt before him and set to work on his right leg.  Though the shears were sharp enough and sliced easily through the fabric, the cut of the trouser was a lot tighter than she’d anticipated.  “Didn’t realise you were into the skinny cut, Doctor,” she teased lightly.

“It’s tapered,” he said defensively. 

“What?”  She glanced up at him with a smirk.  “No booty cut trousers for you?”

“I’m not even sure what that means, but no.”

She’d finished cutting up the outside of his right leg, but ran into trouble around the pocket area.  It made sense, since there was more tailoring, and thus more to cut through.  She gave up on the outside, not wanting to waste any more time than necessary.  “I’m gonna do the inside of the leg now,” she announced, hoping her tone still sounded light.

“Fine, good.”

She set to work on the inside of the leg, anchoring the fabric with her left hand and cutting with her right.  It went smoothly, like slicing a knife through butter until she got to the top of his thigh.  She paused, eyeing an area rife with yet more tailoring and trying not to think about what else she might be staring at.

“What’s wrong?  Why did you stop?”

“The fabric is more tailored in the…top area.  They don’t –” _snip_ “quite” _snip_ “cut it.” _Snip._

Each motion only cut through a millimeter of material, if that. 

She sighed, carefully moving her left hand the slightest bit higher, grateful that there was enough give from the material to grab it in… _that_ area so didn’t have to touch…anything.  She scooted herself closer, extremely aware of the proximity of the sharp ends of the shears to said area.

She felt the Doctor tense.  Apparently he was as well.

She tried to deflect by talking about something else.  “You’ve still got the wires?”

“Clara, if I didn’t have the wires, you wouldn’t be able to ask that question because we’d both be dead.”

She huffed at his rebuke.  “Sounded like they were in a precarious position is all.”

“They’re in an _extremely_ precarious position, but I am very good at remaining absolutely still if I need to.”  He made some noise she couldn’t identify as she continued her ministrations. 

An unbidden image of hands that flew this way and that when they spoke came to mind.  She abandoned the heavily tailored material again, starting on the inside of his left leg.  “I didn’t know you could do that.”

He was quiet for a moment before he replied.  “I can do _a lot_ of things you don’t know about, Clara.”

Her scissors slipped, and a jagged zig-zag appeared off of her nearly perfect straight line.  She licked her lips, her mouth gone dry.  “Can you?” she asked, keeping her voice level, demonstrating her mild interest.

“I can do things you probably don’t think I’m capable of…things you probably couldn’t even imagine me doing.”

Had he dropped his voice _on purpose_?  Or maybe he hadn’t dropped it at all.  Regardless, didn’t he realise what she was doing and the… _parts_ of his she was close to? 

Maybe he did.  Maybe that was the point.

She squeezed her fingers hard around the handles of the shears to hide their trembling, her left hand traveling higher along the inside of his thigh and tugging a bit harder than necessary. 

Maybe he was testing her.

She kept her gaze fixed firmly on her hands, ignoring the desire to steal a glance at what was taunting her from her peripheral vision.  “I don’t doubt it.”   

“In fact…the ability to remain absolutely still comes in handy when I’m doing one very particular thing.”  He peered down at her.  “Do you know what that is?”

She shook her head, transfixed _._  

He paused as if for dramatic effect.  “Standing on my head,” he whispered, then grinned like the absolute idiot he was.

Her chuckle burst out with a healthy dose of relief, knowing he was back to the big, ole, grey stick insect.  “So _that’s_ what you get up to when you travel alone.”

He gave a sigh of mock resignation.  “My secret had to come out at some point, I suppose.”   

She regained her steady grasp on the shears, her line perfectly straight again.   Which was good because she was making quick work of his left leg and coming to the top of his thigh.  She inched her hand up to anchor it again, carefully grabbing the material in – _that_ – area so she could cut more…

But there was no give.  No material to grab.

She frowned, perplexed.  “Hang on.  It wasn’t this tight before. Why is it…?”  She glanced up at him, trailing off as she noticed how studiously he was now _not_ looking at her. 

How he was looking at something twenty feet behind her. 

How over the hum of the deranged TARDIS, she could hear how his breathing had picked up.

“Oh.”  She swallowed. 

“There was a lot of…tugging.”

“Oh.  Okay, well…”  She sat back, inching away to give him space. 

The Doctor immediately noticed, however.  “What are you doing?”

Clara set the shears down, her gaze on the floor.  “Figured I’d give you some space while you… y’know.  Took care of that.”

“Took care of it?  And how would you suggest I do that?” he asked incredulously.

She still couldn’t look at him.  “You can…y’know.”  She stood up, motioning vaguely towards his middle.

He let out a frustrated noise.  “I can only grow a new hand if it’s within fourteen hours of my regeneration cycle, and not only am I a bit past that, but don’t you think I would’ve thought of that to get myself out of this in the first place?”

Her eyes went wide at his implication.  “Oh – no.  No, no, no, I didn’t think you would do… _that_.  I meant the opposite.  Whatever men do to… undo that.  Like cold shower or jumping in a lake or thinking of something disgusting – which in your case is probably your best option...”  She had backed up even further, still intending to give him space.

He must’ve seen it because his next words carried a hint of desperation.  “Clara!  I can’t just – _undo_ things like that.  You’re just going to have to find a way to work around it.”

Now it was her turn to plead with him.  “No, Doctor, you’re not listening.  I can’t work around it!  I could barely cut through as far up as I did, and that’s only ‘cause I had something to anchor myself.  Now there’s nothing for me to grab onto.”

The Doctor lifted an eyebrow the slightest bit.

Clara flushed.  “There’s nothing for me to grab onto that either _you_ or _I_ want me grabbing onto.  And even if neither one of us cared about what got grabbed, it’s pulled so tight that I can’t cut.  I’d have to just start randomly poking, and I could hurt you – I could _really_ hurt you, so…”  She trailed off, letting out a sigh of exasperation.  “I think we’re just gonna have to find another way.” 

There was some strange mixture of determination and reluctance in the Doctor’s face.  “There is a way,” he began, then faltered.  He took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself.  “There is a way to make it less tight.”  He paused, some sort of internal war playing out across his features.  “And it probably won’t take you long.”

The longer he stared, the bigger her eyes became.  They were open so wide, she kept waiting for him to comment on them.    

But maybe he figured that, just for once, her reaction was justified.

“You mean you want _me_ to…”

“There is no ‘want you to,’ here, Clara.”

She gave a minute shake of her head.  “No.”  She wracked her brain, aware of their ticking clock – how much time did they have left anyway?  “There’s – there’s _got_ to be something else we can do.  There are literally _miles_ of room inside here – I just need to find another instrument that’s sharper, or even just a single blade so it can slice easier.”

“Yes, and with the _miles_ of rooms, and with _her_ –”  He stabbed a look up at the ceiling – “disposition right now, it could take you _days_ to find anything.”

“Then tell me where to look!”  She squared her body, blood pumping, adrenaline coursing, preparing to run.  Run away from this, from what he was asking her to do, from having to be _that_ close to him, to have to _feel_ him and _do_ that and have to be so entirely detached about it, because there was ‘no want you to here,’ and she’d barely kept herself in check when she thought he was throwing innuendos at her, and she just _couldn’t_ …

And…well… _Danny_.

She felt a wave of guilt wash over her as she realised he’d been her _last_ concern.

“I’ll run – I’ll go find whatever we need.”  She was backing further away from him.

“Clara –”

“I can make up for all the lost time once I have the right instrument.” 

“ _Clara_.”

If he had shouted, she would’ve ignored him.  But he hadn’t.  Her name came out hushed, a plea laced with genuine caring. 

She hesitated. 

_Damn him._

The look in his eyes matched his tone.  “ _There is no other way_.”  His _sorry_ didn’t need to be voiced.

_Damn. Him._

“Okay.”  She squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip.  She kept her gaze leveled at his chest as she slowly approached him. 

“I can talk you through it,” he offered.  “It’ll go - faster.”

Oh God… _talk_ her through it…?

Didn’t he remember that comment she’d inadvertently let slip when they were waiting at the end of the universe? 

_Frankly, the accent is enough…_

Talk her through it.  Him telling her what to do – to _him_ – describing things that would please him, stoke him on, and…. _and_ _there was no way she could remain detached through that._

And then it’d be over for her.  Like a badly played hand of poker, her tells would show up immediately – and the Doctor would know she was always just an unintentional innuendo away from becoming putty in his hands. 

For a moment, she was overtaken with dread as she imagined having to beat a hasty exit to her bedroom afterwards, cheeks flaming and eyes downcast.  She probably wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye for weeks – if not months.

Then, quite suddenly, something like defiance flared up in her.  She wasn’t some lovesick, inexperienced schoolgirl with a crush.  She was an adult.  An adult with an extremely attractive and _attentive_ boyfriend, _thank you very much_. 

There was no danger here.  She could do this.  She’d never tipped her hand around him before:  this was just a different kind of challenge. 

_I have everything under control._  

She nodded.  “Okay.”  Her eyes were glued to the third button on his shirt as she took a final step forward, halting when she was just an arm’s length away from him.  She took a deep breath and let her hand find that area of his trousers that had given her so much trouble, that she had, up until this moment, taken great pains to avoid. 

She heard the Doctor take a few shallow breaths as her fingers crept down towards the opening.  Unfortunately, the tightness created by the TARDIS’ retaliation and his own – _situation_ – made for the most awkward of fumblings as she had to dig underneath, forcing her hand into a space that already had no room to speak of.

Finally, she found him through the fabric of his pants.  Taking yet another deep breath she hoped he couldn’t hear, she dipped her fingers underneath and met skin at last.

The Doctor briefly hissed at the contact.  “Okay.  Now…”  He took a steadying breath.  “Stroke.  Lightly.”

It was hardly a command, issued so softly, but hearing the low timbre of his voice coupled with those words lit a fire in her belly.  But her fingers obeyed, administering feather-light caresses. 

“That’s it…good.  Now…”  He was already breathing quickly through his nose.  “Grab, but keep your touch light.”

She curled her fingers, letting them just brush along him, back and forth.

“Like that,” he uttered.  “Yessss.”

Something in her brain short-circuited, and she had to take a moment to locate the still-functioning part of her brain to continue her movements.

“Keep doing that, but gradually increase the pressure…”  He was breathing audibly now, and Clara stole a glance at his face.  His mouth was open but so were his eyes and they locked with hers a moment before she quickly dropped her gaze again. 

_There was her first slip.  Damn._

If the Doctor noticed, he didn’t let on.  “Let your thumb rub over the tip every so often…on the downward strokes…”

She let her thumb rub over his head, shifting so her grip was less awkward.  Bringing her a hand’s width closer to him, which was merely more…efficient.

“Like that…keep going, keep…squeezing, keep…increasing the pressure…”  Pleased with her success thus far, she allowed herself another peek up at him and was relieved to see that his eyes had fallen shut.  It emboldened her to drink in his features:  his flushed face, the droop of his lower lip, the way his cheeks hollowed as his breaths came, quick and forceful. 

But her detachment was melting, liquefying her limbs in the process, and she had to bring her other hand up to his waist to anchor herself. 

Becoming a puddle on the floor was not only be a dead giveaway, it was out of the question.

So using her hold as leverage, she inched herself forward until she was completely flush to him, her legs between his, her hand pulling him into her stomach.  She could feel the tip brush against the cotton of her tank top and the sensation made the Doctor’s eyes fly open. 

There was a noticeable shift between them as their eyes briefly locked for a few hammering heartbeats before his gaze swept hungrily over her face.   He indulged in his own eye fest, probably noting the colour in her cheeks and the way her own mouth hung open. 

 Now they were even.  “Good…now…harder than that.  And _faster_.”

She increased her speed, squeezing more, her eyes never leaving his face.  “Like that?” she found herself asking breathily.

“ _Yes_ , but…but more…”

“More -?”

“ _More_ …”

Her breaths mingled with his.  “More what?”  Her voice had dropped, too, tone settling comfortably into sultry.  “Tell me, Doctor,” she murmured.

“More…everything…more…you…”  Words were getting difficult for him, and Clara felt a thrill shoot through her, knowing that finally, _she_ had an effect on _him_. 

“Clara…” he managed, and she saw his eyes had slid shut again.

“Yes?” came her eager reply, barely a breath.

“I want you to…” 

Her left hand slid up his chest, fingers dipping into the space between his buttons, her nails scratching his skin.  “What?  Tell me…”

“I want you to…use your mouth, I want to feel…”  He opened his eyes, his look penetrating clear through to her soul.  He took another breath like he was about to say something, and then let slip the last word she ever expected to hear from him –

“ _Fuck…_ ”

An involuntary moan sounded from her throat, and she immediately dropped to her knees.  She paused a second, then wrapped her lips around him, the bitterness tasting like the sweetest of victories.    

He let out a growl that she felt all the way down to her toes.  She worked him with her mouth as he bucked into her, swirling her tongue around, noting which motions elicited louder or deeper cries from him and doing her best to replicate them.  In all her time with him, she never would’ve guessed that on her knees before him, unable to speak was the position of the most control, and yet here she was.

And he was _completely_ at her mercy.

But her triumph was still incomplete:  she _needed_ to see his face.  She stood up again, using her slick saliva as a lubricant as she continued to pump him, resting her head on his chest with her face upturned.   And now, she could watch the subtle shift as her breaths mixed with his, as she wrapped a leg around his and pushed into his thigh, her grinding startling an _oh_ from him.      

He was quivering, his groans and growls rising in pitch and level, and she knew he was close.  Hastily, she tugged the hem of her tank top up, tucking the end through the scoop at the top to expose her stomach. 

And then he exploded with a shout, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, his mouth wide in ecstasy as hot liquid spurted onto her skin.

She continued her strokes until he stopped shaking, quieting, until he finally opened his eyes and looked at her.

The moment hung suspended, stretching taut:  her fingers still wrapped around him, his flesh softening against her stomach, the sticky wetness covering both of them.  And she was sure he could also feel _her_ wetness against his thigh, seeping through the flimsy layers of fabric between them. 

She had him beat.  She could feel it.

There was no way he could pretend this was _nothing_ now…

Could he?

He opened his mouth, something unreadable passing behind his eyes before it vanished, his attention flicking to his hands where the wires still sat delicately between his fingers.  “You can stop now,” he said, his tone just shy of matter-of-fact.

Clara’s hands immediately flew off of him, disentangling herself as she took a large step back.  “Right.  Of course.”  She eyed her hand, suddenly desperately wanting to wash herself off.

The Doctor seemed to read her mind.  “There’s a rag down in the red bag if you want to…to clean up.”

“Great.”  Her voice sounded shrill to her ears as she made a beeline for the bag, her hands shaking as she located it and wiped her hand and her stomach.  There was a lump in her throat, but she swallowed it down.  She shook her head, keeping the roiling thoughts successfully corralled. 

_Well, what did you expect?  Since when has the Doctor ever played by any rules but his own?_

Arranging her features into a neutral mask to match his matter-of-fact tone, she returned and immediately dropped to the ground, avoiding all eye contact.

She could feel the Doctor’s gaze on the top of her head.  “Where’s the rag?”

“I left it in there.” 

She heard him make some sort of exasperated noise.  “So you get to clean up, but I don’t?”

Clara lifted a shoulder nonchalantly as she detachedly tucked him back into his trousers.  The timing was perfect.  “Figured you’d do it yourself after I was done.”  She grabbed at the now looser material and started cutting.  Something made it easier this time.  Maybe it was the newfound space, maybe it was that she didn’t care as much about what she touched now – or if she accidentally poked him.

Or maybe something was fueling her motions, each _swish_ of the shears more forceful than the last.

They were both silent, the only sound her laboured breathing as she used every ounce of strength to cut, _finally_ making progress.  She knew that her knuckles were brushing up against various parts of him by the light grunts that sounded from his throat as she started ripping, but she didn’t care. 

Why should she?  If he got aroused again, it would be _his_ problem, not hers.

By the time she had cut and ripped her way through enough to liberate him, a light sheen of sweat had formed on her face, chest and back.  She scrubbed at her forehead with the back of her hand as she stood up.

The Doctor kicked himself free of the ruined trousers, and Clara saw how his hands were trembling as he made a dash for the rectangular panel next to the nest of wires. 

“You’re welcome,” she grumbled bitterly, still trying to catch her breath.

“Clara, don’t leave.  I still need you.”

She bit down on the storm of retorts that rushed to mind, letting the scissors drop to the floor with a careless clang instead as she stalked to where the Doctor was hunched over.  The wires were snaked in a crazy crisscross pattern around something that looked like an ordinary black knob.  “What?”

The Doctor indicated something with his head.  “The blue.  I need you to get that blue wire and stick it in the middle of these.”

Clara looked where he was pointing, and – yes, there was a blue wire that stood out from the mess of others.  She grasped it between thumb and forefinger.  “This one?”

“Yes.  Now, come stand next to me so you can see where it needs to go.”

She grudgingly took her spot next to him and peered at the tangle of wires around the knob.  “I don’t see it”

“You need to come closer than that.”

Of _course_ she did.

She shot a glare at his shoulder, inching closer to him.  “Nope.  Still don’t see it.”

The Doctor sighed.  “ _Closer_.  Come bring your head down, next to mine.  It’s right in the line of my sight.”

She lowered her head so it was level with his, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his cheek onto hers.  She knew that this was when she was supposed to show just how unaffected she was, how coolly detached she could be – to demonstrate how being this close just minutes after their intimate encounter had no impact on her whatsoever and meant nothing to her.

Just as it quite obviously meant nothing to him.

Her vision blurred as she stared at the wires, and she blinked away her angry tears.  When her vision cleared, she could just make out the tiny dots where the wires were attached, locating a similar dot the size of a pinhead in the middle of them.  “Got it.”

“Good.  Now twist the ends and stick it into the slot.”

Clearly, the Universe was conspiring to make this as painful as possible for her.  Placing the wire would require having to lean over him and possibly having to brush up against him with a rather…sensitive area of her body. 

Just then an idea struck her.  Maybe that was _exactly_ what she should do.  See if _he_ could hide his reaction when a part of his body touched one of _her_ erogenous zones.  See how detached and unaffected _he_ could be.

Purposely turning in a little, she repositioned her body for the most direct contact and leaned over his outstretched arms to position the wire, the tips of her breasts caressing his wrists. 

Nothing.

Frustrated, she pretended to hunt for the exact position, leaning just the tiniest bit further forward so she could actually rest them on his arms, the hardened peaks poking at him tantalisingly.  “Almost got it.” 

Or what she’d assumed would be tantalising:  the Doctor didn’t move a muscle, his breathing completely even.

Heat rose in her cheeks as she hastily placed the wires.  “There.”

There was a shudder as the TARDIS cleared herself of the infection and whirred to life.  Lights flashed overhead and the normal sounds of dematerialising filled the air. 

The Doctor let out a loud groan of relief, collapsing onto the panel of wires and relaxing his hands, flexing his fingers back and forth.  He bowed his head and kissed the panel several times, just inches from Clara’s hand. 

“Thank you, thank you, _thank you_.”

Without a word, she turned on her heel and headed for the stairs.  But he didn’t let her get very far.

“Clara!  Where are you going?”

Her neutral mask was beginning to slip, but she folded her arms, her posture rigidly keeping all emotions in check.  “Worked up a sweat.  Going to have a wash.”  She tugged the hem of her tank top down when she saw him eye her stomach.  “No more planet-obliterating boom, right?  We’re sorted?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What do you mean?”

His approach was careful.  “What do I mean?”

Oh, no.  This was _beyond_ fair. 

She’d gone all in and she’d lost. 

The least he could do was let her make a graceful exit without drawing attention to her shameful defeat.

She gave him a blank stare, shrugging her shoulders.  “I dunno – that’s why I asked.”

“Neither do I.  I would like to know, however, what I have done that’s made you so angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

He lifted his eyebrows at that.

She didn’t back down.  “Why would I be angry?”

“I don’t know – you tell me.”

Another denial wasn’t possible when he wasn’t buying it.  So she gave a careless toss of her head.

“Perhaps it’s because I haven’t thanked _you_.”

Her mask cracked.  “You really don’t need to do that…”

“Why?  You deserve one after all you did.”

“ _No_ , I _really_ don’t want it.  Just don’t, okay?  Just - _don’t.”_  Shocked into speechlessness by his callousness, her mask slipped, her stare hardening until she couldn’t look at him anymore.

He let ten seconds pass, though whether it was to let her get herself under control or not – she couldn’t be sure.  “Why not?” he finally asked.

“’Cause it was nothing.  It didn’t mean anything.”  She tried for a casual smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.  “It was nothing,” she repeated.

Maddeningly, he didn’t reply.

The silence was deafening, and more than that – it was dangerous, leading her to believe she didn’t need to concede just yet.  “Right?”

This time, he only let a few seconds pass.  “Yes.”  He took another step towards her.  “But do you know why?”

She braved an actual smile, needing something more convincing.  “’Cause we’re friends.  ‘Cause we don’t do that – ‘cause…that’s not who we are.”  She scoffed like he’d asked something ridiculous.

He was giving her that stare again, the one that seared through flesh and bone, singing the edges of her soul.  “No.  That’s not why.”

A wave of guilt arose, this time crashing into her.  “’Cause of Danny…”

It was his turn to scoff.  “P.E.?  No, I don’t care about P.E.”  He was almost close enough to touch her now. 

She swallowed, suddenly feeling light-headed.  “Then why?”

His expression was almost mournful, his words measured and slow.  “Because we would _destroy_ each other.”

She frowned at him.  “What?”

“One obscenity – that was all it took.  One obscenity, and you…”  His eyes roved over her body.  “You became putty in my hands.”

She scrutinised him incredulously.  “But that’s not how it was.  You say that like it was something you purposely said, when it wasn’t.  It was said in the heat of things, in the - moment.”

He let another eternity pass before he answered.  “Was it?”

She gawped at him as the implications sank in. 

That he’d deliberately said things to get a reaction out of her…

That he’d noted every shift between them…

That he’d been playing all along,  cards held closely to his chest.

Or...

_Or._

_Or THIS was him finally tipping his hand._

Doing everything he could to ignore it, to brush it off, to provide excuses.  To make her believe that he’d only been testing her, and had actually been in complete control the entire time.

Clara could almost feel the adrenaline coursing through her at the rush of new prospects.

She lifted her chin in challenge.  “And anyway, that’s not how I remember it.”

“No?”

“Nope.  I remember you asked me to do something and I did it - not knowing that _you_ …”  She copied his motion, letting her gaze linger at where she had spent so much time.  “– would become putty in _my_ hands.”

A corner of his mouth quirked, but it immediately fell.  “Exactly.”  He turned from her, then, and walked over to where a rack had materialised.  Half a dozen identical pairs of trousers hung from it, all clean, pressed and tatter-free.  He grabbed a pair.

She shot him a puzzled look.  “So we remember it differently – so what?”

“No.”  He turned to her, tucking his shirt in and zipping himself up.  “We remember it exactly the same.  That’s the problem.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“We’re too alike, Clara.  You and me.”

“Too _alike_?  No, we’re not.”

He just looked at her. 

“We’re not!  I’m _nothing_ like you!”

“Whatever you say.”

She realised her mistake, trying to backpedal as she followed him up the stairs.  “I don’t mean it like _that,_ I just – I don’t think you and I are all that similar.  If anything, we’re very, _very_ different from each other.” 

The Doctor was collecting tools and books that had fallen during the TARDIS meltdown, restoring order to the console room.  “We’ve arrived at your flat.”  He glanced pointedly at her top and then at her, his look piercing.  “You might want to go wash me off of your skin before you meet up with your boyfriend.”

Her cheeks flamed, though she wasn’t sure if it was from being summarily dismissed or from his words.  Regardless, she found herself capitulating.  “Fine.”  She held up her hands.  “Fine.  It was a one-time thing, never gonna happen again, never gonna talk about it again.”

“Good.”  He heaved a stack of books onto a table, sorting them into groups.

“But that means it was a favour.  I did you a favour, and _that_ means…you owe me.”  She pointed at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Friends don’t do that for each other, right?”  Her eyes blazed, daring him to contradict her.

He hesitated, clearly hating the concession she was forcing out of him.  “I suppose not.”

“So like I said - favour.  And that means you’ll have to return it.”

“Return it how, exactly?”

She shrugged.  “Don’t know yet.  But you have to promise you’ll do it, whatever it is, no questions asked.”

He scowled, dropping a book from his towering pile onto the table with a loud _thwack!_   “Fine.”

She felt a smile tugging at her lips.  Didn’t like it when _she_ made up the rules, did he?  “Cheer up, Doctor.  You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“Neither do you.  So you can’t honestly expect me to be happy about it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said casually, strolling towards the hallway.  “Maybe I’ll just challenge you to a game.”

The book he was holding hovered in the air a moment. “You don’t want to challenge me to a game.”

It sounded like a warning, and it made her heart pump faster in a way it wasn’t supposed to when his voice took on that darker quality.  “Why not?  Afraid it’ll be strip poker?” 

He fixed her with _that_ look again.  “Be careful what you wish for, Clara.”  And that was _definitely_ a warning now. “It might actually come true.”

“You’re just afraid you’re gonna lose.”  She tilted her head at him, giving him a once-over.  “Or maybe…you’re afraid you’ll _win._ ”

A series of emotions tugged at his features until they finally settled into discomfited.  Then he ducked his head - like she didn’t even merit a reply.

Clara turned from the room and sauntered down the hallway, smirk planted firmly on her lips.  Despite his best efforts to hide it, she’d spotted it  that  spark in his eyes at her suggestion.  Her smirk widened into a grin and her steps were light, taking her victory lap at last. 

* _Fin*_


End file.
